


Dirty Laundry

by blithelybonny



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Biting, Clothed Sex, Complicated Emotions, Frottage, Grinding, Jack's Shorts Kink, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 04:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: Kent finds something from their past that Jack held onto after all these years.





	Dirty Laundry

Kent finds the box on the top shelf of a closet in the guest bedroom. It's taped shut, but the tape looks like it's been cut open and resealed a few times. Kent has never pretended to be anything other than a busybody, especially where Jack is concerned, so naturally he opens the box. He takes his time taking every item out and laying each of them carefully on the floor. Because fuck, it's such a trip! It's like diving headfirst into a Pensieve the way all the memories come flooding back.

Here's a picture of him sitting on Jack's lap, throwing up a peace sign like the anime trash he was ( _is_ ).

Here's a faded printout of their Memorial Cup-winning season's schedule, with highlights and notes in Zimms's messy scrawl all over it.

Here's a navy practice sweater, the number 1, the ZIMMERMANN and the C all a bright white still, like the taint of years hadn't got to it yet.

"Kenny, what's--oh."

Kent looks up, and Jack is transfixed by the jersey, he thinks, or maybe the photobooth strip, or maybe all of it. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Couldn't help myself, I guess."

"It's all right," Jack all but whispers back. He kneels down at Kent's side and picks up a Gameboy Micro with a Jigglypuff sticker on the back and huffs what might be a self-deprecating laugh. "Haven't looked at any of this in a while."

"But you have looked at it," Kent replies, as he picks up the photobooth strip. They look so young in it. They look so stupidly happy in it: making goofy faces at the camera first, then grinning, then Jack laughing as Kent presses a smacking kiss to his cheek, then just looking at each other all soft and shy.

Jack doesn't say anything, but that's okay; Kent has heard most of it already in the time they've reestablished their best friendship. Jack reaches into the box then and goes to pull out the next item, but stops suddenly and turns bright red. "Uh, that's it," he says quickly, as he grabs haphazardly at the top of the box and goes to jam it on.

"Oh hell no, dork, what's in the box? WHAT'S IN THE BOOOOOOOX!" Kent teases, even knowing that the reference will go right the fuck over Jack's head, the nerd.

"Nothing!" Jack actually fucking _squeaks_.

So whatever it is, is clearly more embarrassing than the picture of Jack creep-watching Kent sleep. (He’s all snuggled up to Jack on some roadie, so Brooksy or Moze must have stealth-taken the pic with their phone and sent it to Jack as a chirp and then Jack, the idiot, _printed it out and kept it_! Seriously, how the fuck did no one know they were fucking back then?) “Nothing?” Kent asks, smirking.

“Nothing,” Jack repeats.

They stare at each other for two heartbeats and then Kent pounces. He dive-tackles Jack, who clearly miscalculated by thinking Kent would go for the box, knocking him onto his back with an _oof!_. And yeah, it’s probably a dangerous position to put them in, being that their friendship, while seemingly back to what it once was, could still be considered tenuous when it comes to the cheeky, flirty things that sometimes find their way into their interactions, but it’s the easiest way to subdue Jack in order to get at whatever’s left in the box. So they struggle a little bit until Kent is successfully able to straddle Jack’s hips and pin him down.

“Ha!” Kent crows, leaning down over Jack’s chest with his hands pressing Jack’s shoulders into the floor. “Too slow, old man.”

“Fuck,” Jack says, flat and resigned. He doesn’t move to knock Kent off him, though, which is obviously a sign that he doesn’t care _too_ much that Kent is going to look at whatever deep dark secret is left. “Also you’re older than I am.”

“In spirit, obviously, Zimmermann,” Kent teases. He then tentatively lifts one hand to see if Jack will take the opportunity to flip Kent off him, then the other, just sitting back on his haunches and pressing heavily back on Jack’s upper thighs. “So I can look?”

Jack’s face is bright red again, and Kent knows it’s not from the brief wrestling match, but then he lifts a hand to cover his eyes and says, “Yeah, okay.”

Seeing no particular reason to move from his perch, Kent just reaches behind himself to scooch the box over to them. Jack squirms a little bit (which, he should probably stop doing that if he doesn’t want Kent to get _ideas_ ), but otherwise doesn’t say anything as Kent takes off the lid and reaches inside.

“What the hell were you so--oh, shit.” Kent unfolds the slightly-crusty pair of basketball shorts and then, unthinkingly, sets them down on Jack’s chest. “Dude,” he asks, bewildered, “are these mine?”

Jack doesn’t respond, except for the way his mouth thins out into a tense line and his expression closes off, and Kent knows he’s got to tread lightly here (though why, exactly, he’s not quite sure). He does recognize the shorts though; they’re definitely an old pair of his: from the mostly-faded logo from the high school he attended before moving to Canada just above the left knee to the worn patch at the right hip. Kent doesn’t remember losing them, but then there’s a lot about that time that he’s forgotten out of self-preservation.

“You kept them?” he then asks, quietly. “Like with your...with all your stuff from then.”

Jack’s throat works a little before he’s able to respond, “Yeah.”

Kent stares down at him, eyes traveling from the shorts to Jack’s eyes and back again. Jack is clearly holding something back, and Kent knows he has a choice about how to move forward. He could prod and risk Jack retreating into himself, or he could make a joke and lighten the mood. With one more assessing look into Jack’s eyes, Kent decides definitely the joke.

“You’re such a freak, Zimmermann,” he chirps with a smile to soften it, as he picks up the shorts and tosses them back into the box. But when he goes to climb off Jack’s lap, Jack quickly grips him at the hips and holds him in place. “Oh, uh...Zimms?”

“Sorry,” Jack says, the ridiculous Canadian that he is. He doesn’t let go, though, and there’s something in his stupid ice-blue eyes that sends a frisson of desire through Kent.

They’ve been sort of very carefully avoiding any flirting that goes beyond the theoretical since they’d started hanging out again in the last year or so. Obviously, _a little_ flirting was going to be inevitable, considering how tactile they’d always been even when they were just friends before and also how friggin easy and fun it was to rile Jack up. But Kent had always been very careful to avoid too much tension between them because he wanted their friendship to last this time, and he knew that Jack did too.

“You, euh, left them in my room once,” Jack continues. His face is still a little red, a little embarrassed, but his tone is low and even, and it’s really _doing things_ for Kent.

“And you didn’t, um, give them--”

“--I was gonna wash them and give them back to you,” Jack interrupts him, “but then I didn’t.”

“You didn’t...um, you didn’t give them back obviously, but you, uh, you didn’t wash them either, clearly,” Kent says. Is he...is he reading this right? He doesn’t know--doesn’t want to push too much if he’s wrong.

“No,” Jack replies. “They, euh,” and his voice drops to almost a whisper, “smelled like you.”

“Oh fuck.” Kent swallows against a suddenly dry mouth.

“Yeah,” Jack replies, as if Kent had asked a question. His hands squeeze around Kent’s hips, thumbs digging in just enough to make Kent cry out and wriggle a little up against Jack’s dick which is clearly starting to take an interest.

After a moment of hesitation--because despite their little unspoken rule about escalation, this is very clearly crossing their invisible line, and Kent isn’t totally sure he wants to be the one to push--Kent lowers his hands to brace on Jack’s chest. From the way Jack’s eyes briefly light up before they go half-lidded and desirous, it was clearly the right choice. “You, uh, you kept them because they smelled like, uh,” Kent says, as he carefully, experimentally, rolls his hips in a slow grind against Jack, “my...detergent?”

“No,” Jack says, as his hands slide back from Kent’s hips to his ass. “Try again, Kenny.”

Kent tries not to whimper at the nickname (even though, fucking hell, it brings him back to so many nights exactly like this--thrown together at some stupid party or after practice in the back of Jack’s big, ugly truck or in his room trying to be quiet because his billet parents were just down the hall--young and dumb and figuring out what they liked through trial and error, coming in their underpants because they were so fucking eager to get off, and...oh, oh _holy shit_!) He bites down on his lip against a whine that wants to escape, and then tries, “My...my fuckin’ Axe body spray?”

Jack chuckles a little at that, that dumb laugh of his that sounds like he first saw laughter spelled out in a book or something and thought that’s what it was supposed to be: heh heh, ha ha ha. Kent had always found it stupidly adorable, and it still is, even years later. “No, that shit was awful,” he says, even as he squeezes Kent’s ass and then pushes him into another slow grind. “Smelled like sin and regret.”

“Your mom smelled like sin and regret,” Kent replies, because it’s always going to be instinctive to roast Jack when he’s being a little punk. And also, maybe, he’s feeling a little overwhelmed...

Jack rolls his eyes. “Let’s maybe not talk about my mother right now, Kenny,” he admonishes, moving his hands back up to Kent’s hips.

“Good point, Zimmermann, because you know how great I am at--oh, fuck!” Kent cries out when Jack holds him in place and slowly thrusts upwards, rubbing their dicks together with a perfectly torturous friction.

“Keep guessing, Kenny,” Jack orders.

And _goddamn_ , if that doesn’t really, really fucking do it for Kent. Something about the way Jack fell naturally into a state of authority, even at his most anxious and insecure moments, had always been very sexy to Kent. He’d always liked it when Jack told him what to do, especially when they were experimenting with new and different ways to get off.

But the thing is, Kent is pretty sure he knows the correct answer, although actually being able to say it out loud is something entirely else. He can feel himself blushing now, his neck going hot under his t-shirt. He’s sure he looks splotchy and gross, and it’s also very entirely possible that at any second, Jack is going to shut down this whole thing, whatever it is, as soon as he remembers what a bad idea them fooling around together is.

“Euh,” Jack then says, stops idly rolling his hips up, and moves his hands back into a more neutral position on Kent’s sides. “Is this too much?” he asks.

“What?” Kent’s hands curl into loose fists decidedly of their own accord on Jack’s chest, crunching Jack’s t-shirt up a little bit. “Um, sorry, man,” he continues, and smooths the fabric back out again quickly, not daring to pay too much attention to the way Jack’s breath hitches in his throat when Kent brushes over Jack’s nipple.

Jack doesn’t respond for a moment, but then he lets go of Kent and gets his forearms on the ground to push up closer. It doesn’t quite unseat Kent from his perch, but it does make him slide back a little, enough that their faces are closer, but their dicks are no longer touching. “We don’t have to, Kenny,” Jack says.

Kent is pretty sure the regret he hears in that statement isn’t actually meant to make him feel like a pile of human garbage, but it is a near thing. The problem is that they’re absolutely going to regret this, one way or the other, right? No matter what happens, the friendship that they’ve worked so hard for is going to change whether they get busy on the floor of Jack’s soon-to-be-former guest bedroom or not. “Zimms…” Kent says, trailing off when he can’t find a single word to continue.

“Kenny,” Jack echoes his tone, and his eyes are all soft and it’s probably just the nostalgia or maybe even just the lighting in the room because Kent can’t remember the last time Jack looked at him like that without it going ugly and wrong--

“Kenny!” Jack says again, sharper. He abruptly sits all the way up, but his arms come around Kent’s back to keep him from toppling over.

Kent clings back, musters a smirk from somewhere and chirps, “My hero.”

Jack’s lip quirks up in a sad-looking half-smile for a moment before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Kent tries really hard not to be affected, but those two little words out of Jack Zimmermann’s mouth still have the power to zing through him and soften his harder edges. Which Kent knows is all kinds of fucked up, but, well, them’s the breaks. “It’s cool,” Kent then says, trying to play it off. “You’re all good--wait, actually what are you...um--”

“--I’m apologizing for pushing for something before we, euh, talked about it,” Jack interrupts. He squirms a little underneath Kent, but Kent’s arms tighten around him, possibly of their own volition, and he chuckles a little before he adds, “Euh, and for assuming you’d even be interested, I guess. I know it’s not exactly...normal.”

“What, that you’re a big old freak who gets off on my crusty gym shorts? That’s really fuckin’ hot, Zimmermann.” It comes out of his mouth without his brain consulting, and his eyes widen as he internally screams.

Jack’s lips do that weird, sort of unreadable half-smile again, and he lowers himself back down onto his elbows. Kent misses the feel of his arms immediately and lets his hands fall down onto Jack’s chest again. “Kenny,” Jack says, low again, with a question in it.

“Yeah Zimms,” Kent agrees--though what he’s agreeing to, he isn’t quite sure. He’s nodding though, and it’s probably the least cool or chill he’s ever looked, but he can’t really help himself when Jack is laid out underneath him looking like he’d take literally anything Kent wanted to give him and then take a little bit more too. Kent arches his back then, presses his hands down in what he hopes is a really sexy-looking stretch into Jack’s chest until Jack gets the hint and lays down flat on the floor with his arms pillowed behind his head. “You kept them,” he continues, holding on to his flickering courage and pushing the words out, “because they smelled like my _come_.”

Jack inhales sharply--Kent can feel it under his hands--and swallows hard. His hips jerk up, twitching Kent back into position, realigning them. “Yeah Kenny,” he says, as his forearms tense like he wants to move his hands, but is waiting for permission, “they did. I loved them. I used to--well...you know what I did, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” Kent curses, his eyes closing as his imagination takes over. He can picture it vividly--maybe Jack jerked off while he held those jizzy shorts to his nose; maybe Jack used them for friction on his own dick, added his mess to them; maybe Jack rutted into them on the bed.

“That’s it, bud,” Jack says softly. “Whenever I couldn’t have you, I at least had that piece of you.”

“And you kept them for so-- _shit, fuck, fuck, that’s--that’s so good, Zimms_!” Kent tips forward at the feel of Jack’s dick rutting up in another sexy, slow grind, but now positioned up against his ass. Jack’s finally moved his hands again, slides them down Kent’s back, digging in a little to the muscles Kent is trying to build back up during this off-season, and gets them onto the meat of Kent’s ass.

Jack’s lips are so close; Kent could kiss them if he wanted, but somehow that seems like it’ll actually cross a line. There’s buddies getting each other off and then there’s making out with someone you used to be in love with and whom you used to think loved you back but then maybe he didn’t--

“Kenny,” Jack breathes out, lips brushing against Kent’s, “I can feel you freaking out again.”

“Not freaking out, Zimms,” Kent insists; he closes his eyes tight against the rising tide of anxiety over what they’re doing and tries to relax back into the absurdly hot feeling of Jack’s dick against his body even through his shorts--his shorts that Jack _wants him_ to come in.

Jack tips his head and presses his forehead to Kent’s, sighing gently again. “Talk to me?” he asks.

Kent laughs, bitter and shallow, even as he tries to push back into Jack’s hands again. “Since when do you like talking, Jack?”

In a sudden motion, Jack wraps his arms around Kent’s back tightly and, much more deftly than Kent might have expected, rolls them over until Kent is the one laying on the ground and Jack is leaning over him. Their legs tangle artlessly, and Kent gasps from the surprise and the exertion. Jack carefully lowers Kent’s head onto the pillow of his forearm. His eyes are clear, guileless, but still dark with arousal, when he says, “Since I realized how much better it was to say what I feel instead of hoping someone would figure it out.”

Kent inhales a shuddery breath: Jack must be talking about Bittle, of course, but since that’s long over now, Kent’s traitorous heart can’t help hoping Jack is at least thinking about him a little. “So what do you feel, Zimms?” he breathes out.

“I feel like I want to fuck you, and I also feel like I don’t want it to ruin our friendship,” Jack says bluntly.

It shouldn’t turn Kent on, but it just really fucking does for some reason? Whether it’s the honesty or the casual vulnerability that doesn’t even feel like vulnerability except that it’s coming from Jack who used to be so closed off the Pentagon called him for his secret.

“I want to make you come, Kenny,” Jack continues before Kent can respond, voice husky with need again. “And I want you to know that when we’re done here, it won’t be the end of us, unless you want that.”

“Well, fuck me, Zimms,” Kent says helplessly, closing his eyes against the rising swell of emotion and desire.

Jack chuckles. “That _is_ what I want, Kenny,” he says dryly. “You want it?”

“I want it,” Kent replies. “I really fucking want it, Zimms.”

Jack rolls his hips in answer, grinding against Kent again, before he dips his head down and presses a searing kiss to Kent’s lips. Kent decidedly was not expecting that, but he can’t help but moan into it, especially when Jack parts his lips with his tongue and strokes it along Kent’s own.

He-- fucking hell, how does Jack still taste the same? The kiss is everything Kent remembers from their youthful indiscretions, and yet also feels deeper somehow too, like it means more now than it had then. And sure, maybe he’s just reading into it because he does that sometimes, but it doesn’t matter because he’s really, really fucking enjoying it. And from the way Jack continues to grind against him, as well as the way he keeps taking control and deepening the kiss, it’s pretty fucking clear that Jack’s enjoying it too.

“Mmph, fuck,” Kent says, breaking out of the kiss when he needs to catch his breath, “god, yes, yeah, yeah Jack, like that, I-- I want--”

“--I want you to come, Kenny,” Jack says, as he slides his free hand down to tease at Kent’s nipple. “I want you to come just like this, and then I want to keep your underwear.”

“Oh fuuuuuuuck,” Kent moans -- because Jesus fucking Christ that’s so god damned hot.

“Can you come for me? Just like this? What do you need from me, baby?” Jack asks then, before he dips down and nibbles gently at Kent’s earlobe. “What do you want me to do for you so you can come and give me what I want?” he adds, a gravelly whisper that Kent feels all the way through his entire body.

It’s hard to think with the way he’s hyper-aware of everywhere that Jack’s body is on his, but Kent supposes that’s kind of the point of all this. Jack always did kinda like him out of his mind with desire. Always liked to tease until Kent was practically begging to come, and then when he finally did get that release, it was _everything_.

“Need more, ah, ah!” Kent cries out when Jack nips at his neck this time, sharper than against his ear, and feels the pleasure-pain of it zing straight to his dick. “Yeah, that, fuck, fuck, bite me, Jack, please!”

Jack chuckles against Kent’s neck, then pushes up and looms over Kent again, pressing their lower bodies tightly together. “Anything, Kenny. Anything you want,” he promises, with another slow grind of his hips to punctuate it. He then immediately shoves Kent’s tee-shirt up to bare his chest and clamps his teeth around Kent’s nipple.

“Fuck!” Kent jerks, pushing his chest up into the bite and then squirming under the attention. Fucking hell, it hurts, but it feels so fucking good too, like-- shit, god, he remembers it so well.

Jack gentles him easily, swirling his tongue around Kent’s nipple, soothing the bite, and then suckles a little bit, making Kent hiss a little at the twinge it causes. “You told me to bite you, baby,” he says, murmurs it into Kent’s skin, then suckles again.

“I--I--I know, god, fuck, yeah, yes, yes, Zimms, god, I want it--I want it so bad.” He’s babbling now, he knows, and it’s probably really fucking embarrassing, but he’s super fucking hard, and he really wants to come, and he wants to come the way Jack wants him to come, hard and in his underwear so Jack can keep it, can keep a piece of him even when they’re far apart from each other, and fuck-- _fuck_ , it feels so good, the way Jack’s grinding hard against him and nipping at his skin, and just, he could do this forever, if that’s what Jack wants--

“Come for me, Kenny,” Jack says. “Please.”

“I need, just a little, ah--ah--ah-- more, please Zimms, just a little more, please!”

“I’ve got you, Kenny. Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he promises. But then Jack moves, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, breaks off all contact between the two of them.

Kent’s pretty sure he whimpers in a completely embarrassing way, but he needn’t have worried. Jack has him. He promised. Because just a couple moments later, Jack is back, and he’s stripped out of his shorts, leaving himself in just his tight briefs. He pulls down Kent’s sweatpants, enough that he has some room to move, but not all the way off, which is somehow even fucking hotter, _Christ_ , and then presses his hips down against Kent’s.

With less clothes between them, Kent can really feel the drag of Jack’s dick against his, the friction rough from his boxers against his sensitive, sticky head. And god, Jack wants this so bad, Kent can feel it in the way his dick is hard against Kent’s own, can feel it in the way Jack’s hand tightens at Kent’s hip, shoving him up against himself.

Kent pushes himself up then, arching his back and rolling his hips in an upward grind. The angle is crazy, but it’s working, fuck, he can feel his orgasm building rapidly. He’s so close, god, he’s so close, and he’s going to give Jack exactly what he wants and Jack is going to give him exactly what he wants right back, and fuck--fuck, it’s so good.

“Come on, Kenny, please. Come for me. I want it. I want your come so bad,” Jack begs.

And that does it.

Kent cries out with a strangled sound he wouldn’t recognize at all if he had any sense of himself beyond the absurdly, wildly, amazingly perfect pleasure rippling through his entire body, as he comes hard in his shorts.

“Fuck, fuck, god, fuck, Kenny, that’s so good, you’re so good,” Jack’s babbling back, and then, with a long, hot groan, he reaches down, pulls his cock out of his briefs, and strokes himself off, spilling over Kent’s lower abdomen.

Several long moments later, as they’re both coming down from the high, Jack maneuvers so that he’s laying down between Kent’s legs, with his cheek resting on Kent’s hip. Kent raises his head enough so that he can see Jack’s eyes close with obvious contentment. Kent smiles, exhales a shaky laughing breath, and then slips a hand into Jack’s sweaty hair. “That was-- I mean-- _fuck_ ,” he says, feeling giddy and light. His other hand slides through the mess Jack made of his stomach, and he rubs it between his fingers. “You, uh, you really did like that, huh?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Jack manages, a soft, delicate thing that sends a delightful shiver down Kent’s spine. Jack turns his head in a little more, nuzzles up to Kent’s softening dick, still trapped in his underwear, and hums again. “God, Kenny, you smell so good,” he adds, low and dirty.

And fucking _Christ_ Kent wants to go again, right fucking now. “Fuck me, Jack,” he whines.

Jack chuckles a little, then inhales again. “Give me a bit, then I will. If you really want.”

Kent smiles. “I really want,” he says, tugging gently on Jack’s hair. “I really, really want.”

And he does, he finds. No matter what’s going to happen later, for now, at least, he really, really fucking wants.


End file.
